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Someone won the $1 billion Mega Millions jackpot — here
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what is the largest lottery jackpot ever
what is the largest lottery jackpot ever - win
Biggest Lottery Winners from all over the World
A slight departure from the usual source of Sports Bet information that you'll find here, I thought of compiling some figures to show the biggest lottery winners in history. Unlike lottery winners, us sport betting fans have a much higher chance of success - you're more likely to get hit by lightning than to win any of these lottery payouts, but it's still fun to dream about what you might do with the winnings! The biggest lottery winner in America won an insane $1.537 billion jackpot back in 2019 on a Mega Millions lottery draw. The biggest ever jackpot through the Powerball game, which ended up being shared between 3 ticket holders was very close at $1.537 billion. One further ticket has broken the billion dollar mark in winnings at a staggering $1.05 billion. There have been a further 48 lottery drawings that have smashed the 300+ million dollar mark. Unlike some other locations in the world, these amounts are taxed afterwards but the winners will certainly still be in the super rich club. Taking a look at Europe, there have been some huge wins all over - the largest has been a 200 million Euro ticket in France during December 2020 as part of the Euromillions lottery. Another four winners have collected 190 million Euro prizes in the last ten years. Eurojackpot is another lottery that has a maximum 90 million Euro payout and it has paid out 12 times so far. Most European countries also have local lotteries that have created - 209 million was won through Italy's SuperEnalotto in August 2019. Finally we take a look at the Spanish Christmas Lottery, called "Sorteo Extraodinario de Navidad", which is widely considered to be the biggest lottery game in the world. If we travel back to 2012, the first prize was €730 million which exchanged to $941.8 million at the time). It has progressively gotten ridiculously higher through the years, in 2016 the total prize pool was €2.31 billion ($2.414 billion) and in 2020 it reached a mind blowing €2.38 billion which was equivalent to $2.897 billion.
Mega Millions ticket worth $1M purchased at Roscoe Village 7-Eleven
This is the best tl;dr I could make, original reduced by 24%. (I'm a bot)
CHICAGO - Someone purchased a Mega-Millions ticket worth a cool $1 million at a 7-Eleven store in Chicago's Roscoe Village neighborhood on Tuesday. "What makes me happy, and my favorite part of selling Illinois Lottery tickets, is that these lottery wins give someone else a chance to live a better life and help make their dreams come true. I tell my customers if you win, I win," Patel said. "I plan to use this selling bonus as an opportunity to invest in my employees and customers. My employees will receive a bonus, especially the one who sold the winning ticket and I will throw a customer appreciation party - when guidelines allow. I want our customers to see how much we want to be a part of this community and thank them for supporting us, especially during this time of Covid." The Mega Millions Jackpot is now up to $750 million, the largest prize ever in Illinois if it's won. There is now an estimated $1.39 billion in jackpot prizes to be won across both Mega Millions and Powerball. This is only the second time in the history of these games that both jackpots have simultaneously rolled with jackpots over $600 million.
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Meta: Congratulations! You just won millions of dollars in the lottery!
Congratulations! You just won millions of dollars in the lottery! That's great. Now you're fucked. No really. You are. You're fucked. If you just want to skip the biographical tales of woe of some of the math-tax protagonists, skip on down to the next comment. To see what to do in the event you win the lottery. You see, it's something of an open secret that winners of obnoxiously large jackpots tend to end up badly with alarming regularity. Not the $1 million dollar winners. But anyone in the nine-figure range is at high risk. Eight-figures? Pretty likely to be screwed. Seven-figures? Yep. Painful. Perhaps this is a consequence of the sample. The demographics of lottery players might be exactly the wrong people to win large sums of money. Or perhaps money is the root of all evil. Either way, you are going to have to be careful. Don't believe me? Consider this: Large jackpot winners face double digit multiples of probability versus the general population to be the victim of: 1. Homicide (something like 20x more likely) 2. Drug overdose 3. Bankruptcy (how's that for irony?) 4. Kidnapping And triple digit multiples of probability versus the general population rate to be: 1. Convicted of drunk driving 2. The victim of Homicide (at the hands of a family member) 120x more likely in this case, ain't love grand? 3. A defendant in a civil lawsuit 4. A defendant in felony criminal proceedings Believe it or not, your biggest enemy if you suddenly become possessed of large sums of money is... you. At least you will have the consolation of meeting your fate by your own hand. But if you can't manage it on your own, don't worry. There are any number of willing participants ready to help you start your vicious downward spiral for you. Mind you, many of these will be "friends," "friendly neighbors," or "family." Often, they won't even have evil intentions. But, as I'm sure you know, that makes little difference in the end. Most aren't evil. Most aren't malicious. Some are. None are good for you. Jack Whittaker, a Johnny Cash attired, West Virginia native, is the poster boy for the dangers of a lump sum award. In 2002 Mr. Whittaker (55 years old at the time) won what was, also at the time, the largest single award jackpot in U.S. history. $315 million. At the time, he planned to live as if nothing had changed, or so he said. He was remarkably modest and decent before the jackpot, and his ship sure came in, right? Wrong. Mr. Whittaker became the subject of a number of personal challenges, escalating into personal tragedies, complicated by a number of legal troubles. Whittaker wasn't a typical lottery winner either. His net worth at the time of his winnings was in excess of $15 million, owing to his ownership of a successful contracting firm in West Virginia. His claim to want to live "as if nothing had changed" actually seemed plausible. He should have been well equipped for wealth. He was already quite wealthy, after all. By all accounts he was somewhat modest, low profile, generous and good natured. He should have coasted off into the sunset. Yeah. Not exactly. Whittaker took the all-cash option, $170 million, instead of the annuity option, and took possession of $114 million in cash after $56 million in taxes. After that, things went south. Whittaker quickly became the subject of a number of financial stalkers, who would lurk at his regular breakfast hideout and accost him with suggestions for how to spend his money. They were unemployed. No, an interview tomorrow morning wasn't good enough. They needed cash NOW. Perhaps they had a sure-fire business plan. Their daughter had cancer. A niece needed dialysis. Needless to say, Whittaker stopped going to his breakfast haunt. Eventually, they began ringing his doorbell. Sometimes in the early morning. Before long he was paying off-duty deputies to protect his family. He was accused of being heartless. Cold. Stingy. Letters poured in. Children with cancer. Diabetes. MS. You name it. He hired three people to sort the mail. A detective to filter out the false claims and the con men (and women) was retained. Brenda, the clerk who had sold Whittaker the ticket, was a victim of collateral damage. Whittaker had written her a check for $44,000 and bought her house, but she was by no means a millionaire. Rumors that the state routinely paid the clerk who had sold the ticket 10% of the jackpot winnings hounded her. She was followed home from work. Threatened. Assaulted. Whittaker's car was twice broken into, by trusted acquaintances who watched him leave large amounts of cash in it. $500,000 and $200,000 were stolen in two separate instances. The thieves spiked Whittaker's drink with prescription drugs in the first instance. The second incident was the handiwork of his granddaughter's friends, who had been probing the girl for details on Whittaker's cash for weeks. Even Whittaker's good-faith generosity was questioned. When he offered $10,000 to improve the city's water park so that it was more handicap accessible, locals complained that he spent more money at the strip club. (Amusingly this was true). Whittaker invested quite a bit in his own businesses, tripled the number of people his businesses employed (making him one of the larger employers in the area) and eventually had given away $14 million to charity through a foundation he set up for the purpose. This is, of course, what you are "supposed" to do. Set up a foundation. Be careful about your charity giving. It made no difference in the end. To top it all off, Whittaker had been accused of ruining a number of marriages. His money made other men look inferior, they said, wherever he went in the small West Virginia town he called home. Resentment grew quickly. And festered. Whittaker paid four settlements related to this sort of claim. Yes, you read that right. Four. His family and their immediate circle were quickly the victims of odds-defying numbers of overdoses, emergency room visits and even fatalities. His granddaughter, the eighteen year old "Brandi" (who Whittaker had been giving a $2100.00 per week allowance) was found dead after having been missing for several weeks. Her death was, apparently, from a drug overdose, but Whittaker suspected foul play. Her body had been wrapped in a tarp and hidden behind a rusted-out van. Her seventeen year old boyfriend had expired three months earlier in Whittaker's vacation house, also from an overdose. Some of his friends had robbed the house after his overdose, stepping over his body to make their escape and then returning for more before stepping over his body again to leave. His parents sued for wrongful death claiming that Whittaker's loose purse strings contributed to their son's death. Amazingly, juries are prone to award damages in cases such as these. Whittaker settled. Again. Even before the deaths, the local and state police had taken a special interest in Whittaker after his new-found fame. He was arrested for minor and less minor offenses many times after his winnings, despite having had a nearly spotless record before the award. Whittaker's high profile couldn't have helped him much in this regard. In 18 months Whittaker had been cited for over 250 violations ranging from broken tail lights on every one of his five new cars, to improper display of renewal stickers. A lawsuit charging various police organizations with harassment went nowhere and Whittaker was hit with court costs instead. Whittaker's wife filed for divorce, and in the process froze a number of his assets and the accounts of his operating companies. Caesars in Atlantic City sued him for $1.5 million to cover bounced checks, caused by the asset freeze. Today Whittaker is badly in debt, and bankruptcy looms large in his future. But, hey, that's just one example, right? Wrong. Nearly one third of multi-million dollar jackpot winners eventually declare bankruptcy. Some end up worse. To give you just a taste of the possibilities, consider the fates of:
Billie Bob Harrell, Jr.: $31 million. Texas, 1997. As of 1999: Committed suicide in the wake of incessant requests for money from friends and family. “Winning the lottery is the worst thing that ever happened to me.
William âBudâ Post: $16.2 million. Pennsylvania. 1988. In 1989: Brother hires a contract murderer to kill him and his sixth wife. Landlady sued for portion of the jackpot. Convicted of assault for firing a gun at a debt collector. Declared bankruptcy. Dead in 2006.
Evelyn Adams: $5.4 million (won TWICE 1985, 1986). As of 2001: Poor and living in a trailer gave away and gambled most of her fortune.
Suzanne Mullins: $4.2 million. Virginia. 1993. As of 2004: No assets left.
Shefik Tallmadge: $6.7 million. Arizona. 1988. As of 2005: Declared bankruptcy.
Thomas Strong: $3 million. Texas. 1993. As of 2006: Died in a shoot-out with police.
Victoria Zell: $11 million. 2001. Minnesota. As of 2006: Broke. Serving seven year sentence for vehicular manslaughter.
Karen Cohen: $1 million. Illinois. 1984. As of 2000: Filed for bankruptcy. As of 2006: Sentenced to 22 months for lying to federal bankruptcy court.
Jeffrey Dampier: $20 million. Illinois. 1996. As of 2006: Kidnapped and murdered by own sister-in-law.
Ed Gildein: $8.8 million. Texas. 1993. As of 2003: Dead. Wife saddled with his debts. As of 2005: Wife sued by her own daughter who claimed that she was taking money from a trust fund and squandering cash in Las Vegas.
Willie Hurt: $3.1 million. Michigan. 1989. As of 1991: Addicted to cocaine. Divorced. Broke. Indicted for murder.
Michael Klingebiel: $2 million. As of 1998 sued by own mother claiming he failed to share the jackpot with her.
Janite Lee: $18 million. 1993. Missouri. As of 2001: Filed for bankruptcy with $700 in assets.
So, what the hell DO you do if you are unlucky enough to win the lottery? This is the absolutely most important thing you can do right away: NOTHING. Yes. Nothing. DO NOT DECLARE YOURSELF THE WINNER yet. Do NOT tell anyone. The urge is going to be nearly irresistible. Resist it. Trust me. 1. IMMEDIATELY retain an attorney. Get a partner from a larger, NATIONAL firm. Don't let them pawn off junior partners or associates on you. They might try, all law firms might, but insist instead that your lead be a partner who has been with the firm for awhile. Do NOT use your local attorney. Yes, I mean your long-standing family attorney who did your mother's will. Do not use the guy who fought your dry-cleaner bill. Do not use the guy you have trusted your entire life because of his long and faithful service to your family. In fact, do not use any firm that has any connection to family or friends or community. TRUST me. This is bad. You want someone who has never heard of you, any of your friends, or any member of your family. Go the the closest big city and walk into one of the national firms asking for one of the "Trust and Estates" partners you have previously looked up on http://www.martindale.com from one of the largest 50 firms in the United States which has an office near you. You can look up attornies by practice area and firm on Martindale. 2. Decide to take the lump sum. Most lotteries pay a really pathetic rate for the annuity. It usually hovers around 4.5% annual return or less, depending. It doesn't take much to do better than this, and if you have the money already in cash, rather than leaving it in the hands of the state, you can pull from the capital whenever you like. If you take the annuity you won't have access to that cash. That could be good. It could be bad. It's probably bad unless you have a very addictive personality. If you need an allowance managed by the state, it is because you didn't listen to point #1 above. Why not let the state just handle it for you and give you your allowance? Many state lotteries pay you your "allowence" (the annuity option) by buying U.S. treasury instruments and running the interest payments through their bureaucracy before sending it to you along with a hunk of the principal every month. You will not be beating inflation by much, if at all. There is no reason you couldn't do this yourself, if a low single-digit return is acceptable to you. You aren't going to get even remotely the amount of the actual jackpot. Take our old friend Mr. Whittaker. Using Whittaker is a good model both because of the reminder of his ignominious decline, and the fact that his winning ticket was one of the larger ones on record. If his situation looks less than stellar to you, you might have a better perspective on how "large" your winnings aren't. Whittaker's "jackpot" was $315 million. He selected the lump-sum cash up-front option, which knocked off $145 million (or 46% of the total) leaving him with $170 million. That was then subject to withholding for taxes of $56 million (33%) leaving him with $114 million. In general, you should expect to get about half of the original jackpot if you elect a lump sum (maybe better, it depends). After that, you should expect to lose around 33% of your already pruned figure to state and federal taxes. (Your mileage may vary, particularly if you live in a state with aggressive taxation schemes). 3. Decide right now, how much you plan to give to family and friends. This really shouldn't be more than 20% or so. Figure it out right now. Pick your number. Tell your lawyer. That's it. Don't change it. 20% of $114 million is $22.8 million. That leaves you with $91.2 million. DO NOT CONSULT WITH FAMILY when deciding how much to give to family. You are going to get advice that is badly tainted by conflict of interest, and if other family members find out that Aunt Flo was consulted and they weren't you will never hear the end of it. Neither will Aunt Flo. This might later form the basis for an allegation that Aunt Flo unduly influenced you and a lawsuit might magically appear on this basis. No, I'm not kidding. I know of one circumstance (related to a business windfall, not a lottery) where the plaintiffs WON this case. Do NOT give anyone cash. Ever. Period. Just don't. Do not buy them houses. Do not buy them cars. Tell your attorney that you want to provide for your family, and that you want to set up a series of trusts for them that will total 20% of your after tax winnings. Tell him you want the trust empowered to fund higher education, some help (not a total) purchase of their first home, some provision for weddings and the like, whatever. Do NOT put yourself in the position of handing out cash. Once you do, if you stop, you will be accused of being a heartless bastard (or bitch). Trust me. It won't go well. It will be easy to lose perspective. It is now the duty of your friends, family, relatives, hangers-on and their inner circle to skew your perspective, and they take this job quite seriously. Setting up a trust, a managed fund for your family that is in the double digit millions is AMAZINGLY generous. You need never have trouble sleeping because you didn't lend Uncle Jerry $20,000 in small denomination unmarked bills to start his chain of deep-fried peanut butter pancake restaurants. ("Deep'n 'nutter Restaurants") Your attorney will have a number of good ideas how to parse this wealth out without turning your siblings/spouse/children/grandchildren/cousins/waitresses into the latest Paris Hilton. 4. You will be encouraged to hire an investment manager. Considerable pressure will be applied. Don't. Investment managers charge fees, usually a percentage of assets. Consider this: If they charge 1% (which is low, I doubt you could find this deal, actually) they have to beat the market by 1% every year just to break even with a general market index fund. It is not worth it, and you don't need the extra return or the extra risk. Go for the index fund instead if you must invest in stocks. This is a hard rule to follow. They will come recommended by friends. They will come recommended by family. They will be your second cousin on your mother's side. Investment managers will sound smart. They will have lots of cool acronyms. They will have nice PowerPoint presentations. They might (MIGHT) pay for your shrimp cocktail lunch at TGI Friday's while reminding you how poor their side of the family is. They live for this stuff. You should smile, thank them for their time, and then tell them you will get back to them next week. Don't sign ANYTHING. Don't write it on a cocktail napkin (lottery lawsuit cases have been won and lost over drunkenly scrawled cocktail napkin addition and subtraction figures with lots of zeros on them). Never call them back. Trust me. You will thank me later. This tactic, smiling, thanking people for their time, and promising to get back to people, is going to have to become familiar. You will have to learn to say no gently, without saying the word "no." It sounds underhanded. Sneaky. It is. And its part of your new survival strategy. I mean the word "survival" quite literally. Get all this figured out BEFORE you claim your winnings. They aren't going anywhere. Just relax. 5. If you elect to be more global about your paranoia, use between 20.00% and 33.00% of what you have not decided to commit to a family fund IMMEDIATELY to purchase a combination of longer term U.S. treasuries (5 or 10 year are a good idea) and perhaps even another G7 treasury instrument. This is your safety net. You will be protected... from yourself. You are going to be really tempted to starting being a big investor. You are going to be convinced that you can double your money in Vegas with your awesome Roulette system/by funding your friend's amazing idea to sell Lemming dung/buying land for oil drilling/by shorting the North Pole Ice market (global warming, you know). This all sounds tempting because "Even if I lose it all I still have $XX million left! Anyone could live on that comfortably for the rest of their life." Yeah, except for 33% of everyone who won the lottery. You're not going to double your money, so cool it. Let me say that again. You're not going to double your money, so cool it. Right now, you'll get around 3.5% on the 10 year U.S. treasury. With $18.2 million (20% of $91.2 mil after your absurdly generous family gift) invested in those you will pull down $638,400 per year. If everything else blows up, you still have that, and you will be in the top 1% of income in the United States. So how about you not fuck with it. Eh? And that's income that is damn safe. If we get to the point where the United States defaults on those instruments, we are in far worse shape than worrying about money. If you are really paranoid, you might consider picking another G7 or otherwise mainstream country other than the U.S. according to where you want to live if the United States dissolves into anarchy or Britney Spears is elected to the United States Senate. Put some fraction in something like Swiss Government Bonds at 3%. If the Swiss stop paying on their government debt, well, then you know money really means nothing anywhere on the globe anymore. I'd study small field sustainable agriculture if you think this is a possibility. You might have to start feedng yourself. 6. That leaves, say, 80% of $91.2 million or $72.9 million. Here is where things start to get less clear. Personally, I think you should dump half of this, or $36.4 million, into a boring S&P 500 index fund. Find something with low fees. You are going to be constantly tempted to retain "sophisticated" advisers who charge "nominal fees." Don't. Period. Even if you lose every other dime, you have $638,400 per year you didn't have before that will keep coming in until the United States falls into chaos. Fuck advisers and their fees. Instead, drop your $36.4 million in the market in a low fee vehicle. Unless we have an unprecedented downturn the likes of which the United States has never seen, should return around 7.00% or so over the next 10 years. You should expect to touch not even a dime of this money for 10 or 15 or even 20 years. In 20 years $36.4 million could easily become $115 million. 7. So you have put a safety net in place. You have provided for your family beyond your wildest dreams. And you still have $36.4 million in "cash." You know you will be getting $638,400 per year unless the capital building is burning, you don't ever need to give anyone you care about cash, since they are provided for generously and responsibly (and can't blow it in Vegas) and you have a HUGE nest egg that is growing at market rates. (Given the recent dip, you'll be buying in at great prices for the market). What now? Whatever you want. Go ahead and burn through $36.4 million in hookers and blow if you want. You've got more security than 99% of the country. A lot of it is in trusts so even if you are sued your family will live well, and progress across generations. If your lawyer is worth his salt (I bet he is) then you will be insulated from most lawsuits anyhow. Buy a nice house or two, make sure they aren't stupid investments though. Go ahead and be an angel investor and fund some startups, but REFUSE to do it for anyone you know. (Friends and money, oil and water - Michael Corleone) Play. Have fun. You earned it by putting together the shoe sizes of your whole family on one ticket and winning the jackpot.
Continuing “Yes,” he replies, “Two will drive in in their own vehicles, but one will be flying, I think, it’s not yet been confirmed. If he does arrive on time, he’ll have to go in the field with you in your truck.” “OK, now I’m a taxi service?” I snicker, “Price of poker’s going up.” “Yes, right,” he grimaces, “As per your prospectus, you’re running the show out in the field. You have to being you’re the only one fully licensed. “ “This is news?” I asked. “Well, “he continues, “All of your associates will possess some degree of blasting experience.” “But none are licensed?” I ask. “Not as such,” he replies. “Either way, you’re running the show out there. Make certain they all survive and return moderately intact.” “Always my intention,” I say, “Can I see the list?” “Certainly,” Harry says, sitting back and lighting up my cigar. OK, let’s see…” No doctors, yet. All last-year PhD candidates in either mining or engineering geology. Well, not my absolute first choices, but I guess it’s better than a sharp stick on the eye. There’s: • Albert W. Armstrong. “Al”. University of Missouri, Rolla. Mining geology. • Charles F. Glaciisto. “Chuck”. New Mexico Tech., Socorro. Mining geology. •Leonard. R. Paskapää. “Leonard”. Colorado School of Mines. Engineering geology. “Well, there’s a nice assortment,” I say, “Guess I’ll see them when they get there.” “Chuck and Al are driving out. Leonard is flying out, I think, and won’t be there for another two weeks.” Harry tells me. “Fine by me. Hope they boned up and brought all the necessary gear. This is a real job, not a field trip.” I said. “I agree Rock,” Harry intones, “They have the project prospectus, so there should be few surprises. Well, I’m off to some meetings in DC. I’ll have to catch you for dinner when you return. In the meantime, we have a reservation for you at the Hyatt next door. I’ve also arranged for your trailer and supplies tomorrow at 0600. I knew you’d want to be out on the road early.” “Fair dinkum, Harry,” I say, “Sounds like a plan. I’ll be in touch. Have a good trip.” “You too,” he says as we shake hands and depart. The Hyatt was comfortable, but just another in a long line of chain hotels. Adequate clean room, decent food, ridiculous mini-bar prices. I was up at 0500, showered, and ready to head over to the armory for my Nevada supplies. I show up at 0545. I was that ready to get back on the road. Surprisingly, all I had time for was an early morning Bear Claw and coffee before everyone showed up. “Right this way, Rock,” Andy the Armorer told me. “Drive right back to bay 5. I’ll open it up and we’ll have you on your way.” So, I wheeled back to Bay 5, spun the truck around, and backed right up to the door. I tootled my horn and the corrugated door began to roll up. Andy motioned for me to back in, slowly. Using hand signs, I backed in enough for them to close the door again. I saw my old trailer over in the corner and was thinking it was nice to have a familiar bit of kit. Then another trailer was rolled out. Fully twice the size of the old trailer, it was painted a ghastly government green, overlain with black and yellow cross stripes. It was plastered with DOD, DOT, DOI, and all the other necessary stickers. There was one large and very prominent sticker on the bumper that proclaimed; “EXPLOSIVES! DANGER! STAY BACK 500 FEET.” “Oh, that’s nice and unobtrusive,” I said. “No one will give that a second thought.” Fucking sheesh-buckets. Half the trailer was taken up by a cast-iron tub, with hinged lid. It had an electric motor to raise and lower the lid, just the thing for going out in the boonies, I thought. It was made of very stout and thick welded steel and was quite lockable. It also looked bullet, lightning, and nuke-proof. It also weighed a fucking ton. The rest of the trailer had several lockable compartments, of varying sizes for the inclusions of all my different blasting equipment, all made of the same stern stuff. The whole trailer had a resolute fiberglass lid, although the munitions tub still stuck out proclaiming its message of impending doom for all tailgaters to see. “Is this all really necessary?” I asked Andy. “Latest DOD, DOT, and DOI specs,” he told me. “Marvelous,” I muttered. “Well, let’s get on with the show,” I said. “You have my goodies list? I want to get out on the road.” “Yes, sir!” he saluted, as he was still military. He barked some orders and suddenly, cart after cart after cart of the fun stuff arrived. He delighted in showing me that this was a custom trailer. A special compartment in the tub was for binaries, a special section for dynamite, and one for all the other permissibles. The rest of the trailer was marked with cute little lockable cubbies for “Blasting caps,” “Galvanometer,” “Primacord,” “Demolitoin [sic] Wire,” etc. It was all a very governmental job. Over-designed, over-engineered, and over-wrought. I came to love it. The lockbox in my truck was now empty, so I had the opportunity to load up with a few extras. I thought “You can’t go wrong with Primacord,” so 3 extra spools went in there. As did another couple boxes of initiators, pop-drop-forget fuses, a box of Fusees (road flares), delay caps, a couple of pairs of blaster’s pliers, as I kept losing mine, spools of demo wire, and extra batteries and an extra electronic detonator. Best to be prepared, as I always say. I was now weighed down with over to a ton of explosives, along with all the ancillary tackle. Luckily my truck had that big, ol’ turbocharged V-8. We’re going into the mountains dragging the equivalent of a rental company Toy-Auto behind us. I signed all the paperwork and waited until everyone present had their own notarized copy to lose. I was given two sets of keys, just in case. After I disbursed some thank you cigars, I eased out of the armory, dragging this trailer down that endless black ribbon of highway. It was chained, wired, and padlocked to my truck. It would be a serious pain in the ass to take it off and park it for the night. Until I hit Reno, I either camp rough or stick to the plastic water glass circuit, that is, truck stops. “No problem,” I thought. “I’ve done worse.” Back on the road again, I’m cutting due west towards Arizona. Even with my truck’s big turbo V-8, with all the shit I was carrying and dragging behind, forget rapid acceleration or passing on anything even approximating a stiff grade. I eased on down the road, out of New Mexico and into Arizona. I resolve to visit Cuba on the return trip. A simple swing across Arizona and I’m in Nevada. Looks like smooth sailing ahead… Things are going along swimmingly. I’m making great time on I-40 across Arizona. Sure, it’s hot out, but there’s not much traffic and I can keep a pretty steady pace. So much so, I’m pointing the truck in a generally westward direction and I busy my long hours away futzing with the CB radio, eavesdropping on truckers on channel 19. Or, I futz with my shortwave trying to find Radio Moscow. Yeah, even the CWG, car window geology, can pale after miles and miles of miles… I’m tempted to swing through Winslow, Arizona just because I’m a fan of the Eagles. But the road is humming so nicely, I just decide to ‘Take it Easy’, and continue onwards. Through Flagstaff, through Ash Fork, through Seligman. I’m blazing along only to have to take a bit a break outside of Kingman to avail myself of the roadside rest area facilities before I make the lane change and head for Vegas. Or, more accurately, around Vegas. I want no part of dragging over a ton of high explosives down The Strip. Besides, the DOT would hang me by my thumbs, or more tender appendages, if I didn’t take an ‘ODOT’, or ‘Optional Direction Of Travel’. Got to stay away from agglomerations of those people things. That won’t be for a while as I head up Highway 93. Through Chloride and Willow Beach, up toward Henderson. I zip over the Colorado River and I’m in my destination state. In the far, far south of the state, and I’m headed to the extreme northwest of the state, but, hey, I’m in the damned state nonetheless. Up towards Las Vegas, I really want to pull in, grab a suite, and go all Vegas-y. But, duty calls. I resolve to take Esme to Vegas when I get back to Houston and before we make any plans to head to some Middle Eastern sandpit. I schuss up the 11 right towards Vegas and right on past via 215. I’m now on 160 headed towards one of my favorite cities: Pahrump, Nevada. Governor Lepetomane: [pointing to a member of his cabinet] “I didn't get a "Pahrump" out of that guy!” Hedley Lamarr: “Give the Governor a ‘Pahrump’!” Politician: “Pahrump!!” Governor Lepetomane: “You watch your ass.” Pahrump, indeed. Anyways, I continue along in Nevada as the sun slowly slinks down ahead of me. All the hours on the road, all this fresh air, all the cigars… Shit, I need a drink and a nap. I’m between Beatty and Bonne Claire, just outside the Mojave Desert when I suddenly felt the urge to pull over, climb in the back of my truck, have a stout drink, and flake out until it cools off some. There’s really not much out in this part of the world, so I pull off the highway and go off-road some 150 meters or so; parking parallel, but somewhat distant to, the highway. That way, people would think I’m a local, or a camper, but not anyone in trouble. So they’d just flash by and leave me the fuck alone for a while. Plus, I didn’t need to look for a motel, pay for a motel, schlep baggage…oh, fuck, I need a road snooze… I lock the cab of the truck, pop open the step cap, and climb inside. I couldn’t be arsed to find a proper glass for a cocktail, so I just liberated a frosty beer from the closest cooler. I rearranged my tack in the back of the truck to make a most serviceable little nest, and pulled down, but didn’t lock, the back window. Just right for a few hours’ kip. I set my .454 next to me, got comfy on my sleeping bag, and was out before I could even start that initial beer. I awoke suddenly, hearing rather than seeing something prowling around in the impenetrable darkness outside. Of indigenous animals, I possess no fear. But I’ve seen ‘The Hill Have Eyes,” “Texas Chainsaw Massacre” and actually hail from the land that spawned Ed Gein, so I’m a bit, well, ‘alert’. I spy the glint of something possibly metallic, so it’s official. There’s an ax-wielding serial killer wandering around outside lusting for my giblets. He probably has a hook for a hand and only appears on the roadside on the anniversary of his family’s decapitations in a bloody sweater knitted by his dead wife. Either that or it’s a silver possum. Whatever it was, it went up to the front of my truck and seemed to be testing the doors. I still have on my field boots, loosened, so I tie them as securely as I can manage. I slowly ease open the rear window of the step cap and, silently as a moose, slip out of the truck. I have my .454 loaded and in defense position. Any small, slow, and stupid beast that turned its back on me was looking for a stomping. The world went dazzling white as someone, or something shone a very powerful flashlight in my face. Imagine going from the inside of a cavern to the bright side of the sun in the space of 11 milliseconds. Luckily, my firearms training prevented any potential disaster. Although, it did hurt like hell having one’s iris’ snap shut like that. “Whoa!” I heard a voice, “Who the fuck are you?” “Whoa!” I said, “Who the fuck are you?” “STAND DOWN! NOW!” I heard. “OK,” I thought, “It’s a cop…” “Cool out! I’m licensed for CCL. See? Gun going down!” I said, loudly. “OK, gun on the ground and stand back!” He ordered. “Absolutely, sir,” I said, “I hear and comply.” “What the hell is that?” I heard someone ask. “Umm, Officer?” I asked, “I’m Doctor Rocknocker of Texas. I’m going to Reno to the BLM and DOI. I am licensed for CCL and that, lying there getting dusty, is a custom .454 Casull Magnum.” “Come forward so I can see your hands and be recognized.” He orders. “Yes, sir,” I said and complied. “OK, slowly. Your identification.” He barked as I slowly handed him my wallet. “OK. Doctor Rocknocker. Right. Texas CCL. OK. Texas Driver’s License. Right. Blaster’s license. OK. Master Blaster’s certificate. Umm. ISEE membership. Yeah. What’s this?” he asks, shining his light on my wallet. “My Russian Driver’s License,” I reply. “Um, yeah. OK…” he says and hands back my wallet. “May I retrieve my sidearm?” I ask. “Certainly,” he replies. I grab my Casull and dust it off as best I can before shoving it out of sight, back into its holster. “What the hell are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night? He asks. “Well, I’m a geologist…” I begin. He holds up a hand and stops me right there. “That explains it.” he snickers. “You fuckers are nuts.” “Well, I cannot in good faith argue that point,” I concur. Officer Westmoreland, as I soon found out, is a Nevada State Trooper. He saw my rig parked, dark, on the side of the road out here on the fringes of the Mojave. He was checking if anyone was around or might be in of need assistance. I told him my long, sordid tale. I wandered over to my truck and pulled out a cigar. Officer Westmoreland refused my initial offer. He didn’t resist when I pulled over my larger cooler, grabbed a glass, and poured myself several hands of bourbon over ice. “Officer, I know you’re on duty, but could I interest you in a cold drink?” I asked. “I have several soft and hard drinks, whatever is your pleasure.” “Well, Doctor,” he smiled, “I was on my way home and I was actually off duty when I saw your rig and stopped. Got a cold beer?” “Certainly. Remember, I’m a geologist? Right. Lager? IPA? Stout? Porter? Can? Bottle? Domestic? Import?” I asked. “Yep. You’re a geologist. Whatever’s handy,” he laughs. I hand him a cold Spotted Coo from a small brewery way back in the Foam Town state. I sit down on the tailgate and fire up a Coleman lantern to dispel the gloom. For the first time, I see Officer Westmoreland and he sees me. “Please, have a seat.” I said, “I’m just trying to get my heart rate back down to normal.” He does, at the far end of the tailgate. We’re still sniffing each other out. He looks closely for the first time at my trailer. “What’s all that about?” he asks. “Oh, that?” I ask and take a deep draught of Kentucky’s Finest. “That’s just the transport system for over a ton of high explosives.” He looks at me like I’m joking. “Ah, it’s empty, right?” he asks. “Nope. Totally loaded. Want to see the manifests?” I ask. “You’re not fucking with me, are you, Doctor? Is that really is a ton of high explosives sitting there not 5 feet away…it’s not empty?” he shudders. “Nope. It is quite full. See, I’m going to the DOI, pick up some trainees, and some toilet paper in Reno. Then we’ll all head out into the wild and blow the living shit out of some old, abandoned mines.” I reply. “OH!” he says, relieved, “Wait! I’ve heard of that program. Hey! You’re that crazy guy from Texas, right?” “I guess,” I replied offhandedly, “If that Texas guy is a geologist and fully licensed blaster.” “Yeah! You’re him” he laughs, “Good to meet you, sir. It’s about time someone’s doing something about all these old fucking mines. I have to pull corpses out of them two or three times a year. Seal ‘em up, cement ‘em tight, leave bat bars, don’t matter none. Assholes rip it right down and tear it up, go in, fall down a fucking shaft and die. I have better things to do with my time than retrieve bodies, Doctor. I am glad you’re here.” “I am glad to be here.” I reply, “We’re on a kind of pilot program. Another doctor, Dr. Eva and I, kind of pioneered the process of sealing mines completely or sealing them leaving bat access in the Four Corners area. One thing leads to another and here we are. Sharing a drink, and a smoke, not 1.5 meters away from a ton of high explosives.” “Well,” Office Westmoreland says, “If you’re cool with it, so am I.” as he lights another Marlboro. He decides on another quick beer, as he’s never has a Spotted Coo before. We sit and have a really nice chat. He was keen on looking at my .454. I showed him my 10 gauge Mossberg and he was impressed with that. Then I opened my vest to show him the twin 10mm Glocks I was toting. “Preparing for action?” he asks. “But failing to prepare, you prepare to fail,” I noted. “I hear that!” he says and drains his beer. He hands me the empty as I always carry garbage bags for just such an emergency. “Pack out your trash” isn’t just a good idea, it’s the law.” “Well, Doctor,” he says, “Time for me to go on home. Take it easy out here and get a few hours rest before you head out, you’ve had some of the wet stuff.” “I plan to, Officer Westmoreland,” I assure him, “Thanks, and have a good rest of the night.” “And watch out for serial killers” He chuckles, as he gets back into his squad car and heads off down the road. “He was a nice chap. Very affable. Weird sense of humor, though.” I muse. The next morning, I whip up a quick breakfast of roadside yaws and goiters. I clean up, pack everything back, and am back on the road. I’ll be on 95 most of the way to Reno. Past Tonopah, Coaldale, and Hawthorne. Heading more or less due north. The sun is already baking and I strip off my vest and put my Glocks in the lockbox. I am still wearing my Casull because reasons. I motor past Schurz, and up to Silver Springs. I spend an hour there refueling and availing myself of the facilities. I made sure to keep everyone happy and park out on the fringes of the truck stop after I gas up. Now it’s 439 to Clark, Nevada, onto I-80. Headed more westy than northy now, aimed directly for Reno. I check my DOI prepared itinerary and see I need to find Financial Boulevard in Reno. Very easy as the town’s laid out in a nice, neat grid-like sort of pattern, kind of. I circle around the area looking for an entrance and spy the Genghis Khan Mongolian restaurant about a quarter-mile from the DOI office. I know where I’m having lunch. I pull into the Bureau’s parking lot and head for the rear. I show my credentials at the gate as I don’t think I should leave this trailer out front. I park and wander back into the DOI, weapons all secured in my truck. Inside, I tell the secretary who I am and that I ‘m here on the Abandoned Mines initiative. She says “Of course,” and picks up the phone. Minutes later I am introduced to one Dr. Sam Muleshoe, the director of the DOI around these parts. He walks me back to his office. “Well, Doctor,” he says, “Welcome to Reno. I trust you had a good trip.” “Mostly uneventful,” I replied. “Very good,” he says. “Your associates have not arrived as of yet. Should be here later tonight or early tomorrow. At least two of them will as Leonard won’t be here until the latter part of your project.” “Fair enough,” I said. “Do we know of their vehicles”? I asked. “What do you mean?” he says. “Well, if there are three of us, I can only transport two. I hope one of the vehicles they’re bringing is a four-wheel drive.” I explain. “I’m not certain.” he relates, “But I can check.” “No worries,” I reply, “There’s nothing at this point we can do. Best to just wait and see.” “Right,” he agrees. “Your truck. Is it parked out back?” “Yes,” I reply. “Good’, he says, “Let’s go.” We go out to the back lot and just as I said, my truck and the trailer are sitting there. “OK, Doctor,” he explains, “While we wait, we’ll get your communications sorted out. We have DOI HF (High Frequency) radios for all outgoing vehicles. We’re on a state-wide government frequency. Plus, we can add a bit of extra kit to your trailer if you like.” “Such as?” I ask. “We can add a motorcycle carrier.” he says, “That way, you can take a small dirt bike with you out in the field. If you desire.” “Oh, fuckin’-A Bubba, hell yeah. I desire”. I think. “Yes. Yes.,” I agree, “That might just come in handy.” I agree. A member of the Bureau’s motor pool comes over and asks for my keys. He’ll handle all the modifications. I hand over my keys, and we walk back to Sam’s office. We spend a few hours getting acquainted. Technical talk, very prosaic. Since my associates don’t appear to be arriving that day, Dr. Muleshoe suggests I take a room at the Motel 666 just down the road. My truck will be safe and secure until tomorrow. I agree and go back to my vehicle to gather a few odds and ends. The front seat looks like a Radio Shack exploded. The mechanics and electricians are having the very Devil’s Grandmother of a time hooking up the DOI radio. Seems I have already taken every fusible link available for my stereo, speakers, and other communications devices. I stash the Mossberg in the back of the truck, under lock and key. I replace my Glocks under my vest and have my Casull on my hip. I grab my field case full of reprints and such, and a change of duds. Back in the DOI offices, Dr. Muleshoe remarks that with my sidearms and Stetson, I look like a co-star in some Clint Eastwood flick. This really blew my mind, the fact that me, an overfed, long-haired leaping gnome should be the star of a Hollywood movie. But I didn’t Burdon myself with that thought for long. Didn’t want to start a War, now, did I? A Bureau worker drives me over to the hotel. He drops me off with a directory of Reno BLM and DOI, with phone numbers. He also tells me that although this looks like an unassuming motel, they have delivery service from most of the better restaurants in town and that their Happy Hour should be starting soon. I thank him and he tells me he’ll pick me up tomorrow at 0900 sharp. I obtain a room easily as evidently nothing fazes these people out here. I wanted to take some time and fart around downtown Reno. But, I decided to let that go until the job is done. Besides, I don’t feel like walking all over a new town the first night I’m in. It was a very nice room, clean, utilitarian and with an in-room safe. I stash my sidearms and lock it up solid. I then get to the phone and make some calls. I call Esme and let her know of my progress. Everything’s puttering along fine back home. Es is thrilled at the new blades I got for her rock saw and she tells me that the omphacite vase is almost ready. She also tells me that I need to bring back representative examples of Nevada’s oddball geology for her to work on. I assure her I will, profess my undying love, and hang up. I call Rack and Run with an update. All very routine, the call lasts less than five minutes. Then I call Harry in Albuquerque. Then I remember he’s in DC at a conference of some kind. I leave a quick message on his machine and hang up. “Well, now,” I say to no one in particular, as I comb back my long silver hair. “Everything business-related is done and dusted. And I’m dusty.” Down the hall, down the elevator, and off to Happy Hour. Two for one drinks and they’ll even serve interlopers dressed in ghastly Hawaiian shirts and cargo shorts. I explain the proper construction methods of my signature cocktail and shortly, two large tumblers full of Rocknocker-cocktail appear as I’m perched upon Mahogany Ridge. All for the princely sum of US$2.00. I realize that I really like Reno. It’s sort of a mini-Vegas, I find. I’ve never really been to Reno before and it really is “The Biggest Little City in the World”. Even in this little unassuming bar in this little unassuming motel, there are a couple of tables for roulette, craps, and blackjack. And walls full of One-Armed Bandits. Figuring I already paid my Stupid Tax by purchasing some scratch-off lottery tickets for Esme, and dropping $5 on the “Pick Five,” I could forego paying any more into the state’s coffers. After several more cocktails, I was already 8 bucks in the hole for drinks and $40 bucks more feeding those infernally blinking, though ineffably inviting machines. I tried the Blazing 7’s machine. I lost. I tried the Monopoly slots. I lost. I tried the Cash Express. I came >< this close but still lost. Disgustapated, I tried one final machine, The Jackpot. I won $50 bucks. “Holy shit!” I wowed, “Wow! I broke even!” I quit immediately and went back to the bar. I had another couple of drinks and after tipping out the bartender, I realized I had still lost. I was down $12 dollars. In other words, I did as well as usual. Back in my room, I ordered some chow from the Genghis Khan Mongolian restaurant. At least here my luck was changing. It was excellent. After checking out the next morning, I’m puffing on a cigar, waiting on my driver. He shows up spot on time and I go to snuff my cigar in an outside ashtray. “That’s OK, Sir’, he tells me, “I don’t mind if you smoke. As long as you don’t mind me.” “Fair enough,” I tell him, and we sally down the road to the DOI. Of my three acolytes, • Albert W. Armstrong. “Al”. University of Missouri, Rolla. Mining geology. • Charles F. Glaciisto. “Chuck”. New Mexico Tech., Socorro. Mining geology. • Leonard. R. Paskapää. “Leonard”. Colorado School of Mines. Engineering geology. Albert and Charles arrived late last night, they drove in. Leonard, as Dr. Muleshoe noted, will arrive later, flying or driving in. My truck is ready to go as is my trailer. I have my choice of several BLM/DOI motocross and dirt bikes, so I choose a cute little Maico 501, as the bike featured the largest two-stroke single-cylinder engine ever stuffed into a production bike. I figured I’d need all the torque I could get to haul my carcass around. I receive extra fuel bowsers already pre-mixed with oil for the bike. I’ve been a rider for years and even though most of my latest motorcycle driving concerns my Indian Super Chief, I’ve ridden dirt for years when I was younger. I introduce myself to Albert and Charles. We shake hands and they tell me to refer to them as ‘Al’ and ‘Chuck’. “And you will call me Rock,” I reply. They were both cool with that. I ask what vehicles brought them here. Al drove in via a beat-to-shit Volkswagen Van. Chuck drove his International Harvester Super Scout, also beat to death, or close to it. “Gentlemen,” I say, assaying their field vehicles. “These will not do.” They both immediately looked unconformable. “It’s like this,” I relate to them, “I have my GMC 1-ton. It has room for two people, but not two passengers. I’m also towing a trailer, so I don’t want to be weighed down by all your field gear as well.” They nodded in agreement. “Let’s have a chat with Sr. Muleshoe,” I suggested, “He might be able to come up with a solution to our problems.” So we did. The BLM lent us one of their field-kitted out Land Cruiser, a J-70. A boxy, utilitarian vehicle, with an eight-cylinder petrol engine with a five-speed standard transmission. “Either you two know how to drive a standard shift?” I asked. They both replied in the affirmative. Harrumph. Try that today… “Well, gents,” I said, “We’re burning daylight. We leave as soon as you two get loaded and figure out who’s doing all the stick and rudder work. You can drive together, or one can ride with me. Either way, we leave ASAP and we’ll do orientations and Q&A once we’re in the field. Chop-chop!” The haul ass to their respective vehicles. They’ll park their rides in the DOI back parking lot for the duration. I go to get my truck and see if the trailer’s hooked back up. It is and on the rear of the trailer, right above the warning signs for ill-advised tailgaters, is a well-used but still going to be fun as hell Maico 501 dirt bike. This mission has suddenly taken on a more wholesome and lighthearted mien. Al and Chuck decide to make the Land Cruise their vehicle and drive together, at least at the beginning. I have no objection and after dispensing the appropriate maps, itineraries, and other documentation, we do a radio check, as the BLM vehicle already had an HF radio. With that sorted, we head out into the wilderness. Once out on the streets of Reno, I ask for them to find us a grocery store so we can obtain field provisions for the next week or so. We’ll be out in the sticks, but there are enough little towns scattered about and with two vehicles, we won’t be as isolated as I first thought. I remember to stock up on Charmin Extra-Fluffy. I mean, we’re not savages here. We wheel into BinCo foods and invade the store for supplies. Al and Chuck ask what they should buy, as we all have BLM/DOI credit cards for the duration, and I tell them “whatever you want to make for chow”. I explain that I’ll eat just about anything, and am partial to meat, meat, and more meat. I leave them at that and head over to the liquor store down the street. I have 5 huge coolers in the back of my truck. Two for drinks of all sorts, and three for food. I obtain some of the necessary outback fluids and several bags of ice. I ice down all the drinks and wheel back to the grocery store. Al and Chuck are just emerging. I whistle them over to my truck as it’s going to be the Chuckwagon, no pun intended, on this tour. We load their selections into the coolers and ice everything that needs icing down. I go into the store and purchase a few items I note they have missed, and place them in the bed of my truck. I ask if they have everything necessary for a month out in the boonies, and they look to each other, shrug their shoulders, and reply that they think they do. “OK,” I say, “Either of you armed?” I ask. “No,” came the reply. “You will be,” I reply, and ask if there truck’s gassed up. At the Bumoco station, we fill our vehicles to the top. I check all fluid levels as my blinker light fluid’s been being used profligately lately. “OK,” I say, “Last chance. Anything you even think you might have forgotten before we head into the wilds? Chapstick? Bug spray? Aloe?” “No,” they reply, “We think we’re good.” “All-righty, then,” I reply. “You have your maps, you have your compasses, and you have your vehicle. We will rendezvous at Pinnate Ridge in four hours. Bye.” I jump into my truck, fire her up, grab a cigar, crank up some Floyd. I head out of the parking lot, generally south. Both of them just stand there like guppy fish at feeding time. They both realize I’m not fucking around and scramble back to their vehicle. The last I saw, they were still trying to get it into first gear. I made it to Pinnate Ridge in 2.5 hours. It’s really very easy to find, even off the road. There are signs everywhere, even out in the sticks. Its prime desert dune and badland riding area, along with several mines on our agenda that are going to be closing down for good. I arrive and scope out a likely looking camping spot. Nice flat ground, nicely elevated. A not-too-distant outcrop that will be fine for a latrine area. No running water, no trees, no firewood. I expected as much. I pull to where my truck acts as a windbreak and set up camp. Well, my camp at least. Four hours later, I’m slurping a Grape Nehi sitting in my camping chair. I have a fire pit all set up but without fuel. I’m smoking a large cigar and looking through some of the older Mining News magazines. I haven’t seen another person the whole day since we all went off-grid. Over a crest, I see the BLM Land Cruiser. Well, better late than never, I suppose. They finally pull into camp, far too close to my truck, their back wheels in the soft sand. “Gentlemen,” I say, arising from my chair, “Welcome to your first camp. As for your first test, well, more about that later. Let’s make camp, shall we?” Wordlessly, they set about pitching tents, getting out sleeping bags and the like. “Gentlemen,” “I ask, “How’s the weather?” They look at me with blank expressions. “You have radios in your vehicle, do you not? I suggest you call for an update for the next few days.” I recommend. Later, “We did, Rock,” Chuck reports, “No rain, hot, with moderate northwesterly winds.” “OK, good.” I continue, “What do you think of your campsite?” They look and proclaim it fit. “Hmmm,” I say, “Parked to the southeast, back wheels off solid rock and in the sand. What happens if a sandstorm kicks up tonight?” They look, smack themselves collectively in the head, and reposition their vehicle, nose to tail with mine, forming a good windbreak for the entire camp. “Gents,” I say, “’ Be prepared’. Get used to these words, you’ll be hearing them a lot from now on.” “Boy,” I say, “I could sure go for a coffee. There’s the pot, here’s the water, and here’s the coffee. There’s the fire pit…” “Where’s the wood?” Al asks. “Oh, you didn’t bring any firewood?” I ask. “No…,” they both say , sheepishly. “Good thing I did,” I say, motioning to my truck. “Be prepared.” Over coffee and cigars; well, a cigar for me, Al smokes a pipe, and Chuck is tweaking over Marlboro Reds, I go over the basics of our project:
Locate mines.
Map mines if maps need updating. Some are from the turn of the last century, so yeah, this will almost always be a task.
Take representative geological samples. This is my own twist on the job.
Photograph any mine chronological, or unusual, subjects.
Inspect mines for ‘biologicals’. They’ve already been vetted, but I want to be certain.
Find and delineate all surficial openings.
Prepare mine for demolition.
Wire in, prime, and set charges.
Run demo wire out of the mine and back to the safety muster area.
Demolish mine.
Drink vodka & beer, sleep, repeat.
There is no #12.
“Any questions?” I ask. Chuck and Al were so busy taking notes, they didn’t have time to formulate any questions. “OK, guys. Once you get all that, pencils down,” I say. They finish writing and I see it’s already getting late in the day. “OK,” I say, “Dinner if you’re hungry. Shall we eat?” I ask. I decide on dry sausage and beer, as I’m not terribly peckish. Chuck and Al get the fire going higher and grill up some hot dogs and beans. Sitting around the campfire as dusk begins to descend, we sit around with our geological desserts. Beers for the guys and a double Rocknocker for me. Now the drinking lamp’s been lit, we have a chance to chat and get to know each other. “You guys are still doing dishes tonight,” I remind them. “Yes, boss man.” They smile. “OK,” I say, “There are a few things I need to get clear with you. One, I am the hookin’ bull around here. I say ‘jump’, you say ‘how high?’. I’m not too terribly tyrannical, but when playing around with high explosives, your very life might depend on it. Two, I’m the only one licensed to handle the explosives. You’re in training, but you will not go into the lockbox in the back of my truck nor the trailer until I deem you are ready. Violation of this rule is cause for immediate expulsion. And we’ll keep the vehicles. We green?” To be continued.
42 [m4m/f] #Boston North or West I want to relive my threesum experience (story inside)
Regular guy here looking to relive my threesum experience. Here is what happened I guess I might consider myself bi-light. I absolutely love the touch and feel of a woman but sometimes enjoy the feel of a dude's hand stroking my cock. I'll admit I find it pretty hot to make a guy cum with my hand also. I was fresh out of college and between girlfriends. At that point in my life I had had a few jerk off sessions with some guys at school and they were always a good time. I was especially horny one night and thought I'd post a craigslist ad looking for a buddy to jerk off with, maybe making it a regular thing until I met next future ex girlfriend at least. The ad was they typical CL post looking for a dude who could host and wanted to watch some porn and jerk off together. Boy was I in for a surprise when I got the response. I guy a couple of years younger than me responded that he was interested in the same thing and could host. He said it was always something he wanted to try and thought he'd take a leap into it after reading my ad. What I wasn't prepared for was that he was also interested in having his girlfriend watch and possibly join in. Was this the jackpot everyone hopes for or was this just the typical CL bs? Over the next couple of weeks we chatted via yahoo messenger and got to know each other as well as one can over the internet. His girlfriend even emailed me a few times assuring me she was real and they were serious. JACKPOT! We eventually made plans for me to meet them at their place on a Saturday night and see how things went. I got there about 9:00 still not really knowing if I was going to be murdered or not...but what the hell right. You only live once. The dude greeted me at the door and he was pretty much what I expected. I little husky, a little dorky but cool enough and already buzzed. What I wasn't prepared for was his girlfriend when I walked upstairs into their living room. She was a asian girl, maybe 5'5" tall, a little bit of extra weight and the largest tits I've ever seen on an asian girl. She was definitely also "bookish" but also pretty damn cute too. It all started off as we had previously discussed working up to the meet. He and I stripped down and started jerking off. I get hard really easily and really quickly over almost nothing, and he got hard almost as fast. He was pretty well hung, I'd say about the same size as me but uncut. We jerked off for about 10 minutes while chatting, his girlfriend watching us, looking back and forth between us and looked as if she was starting to get a little aroused too. She even started to take off layers of clothing as we continued to jerk off and chat. After 15 or 20 minutes he asked of we should try jerking each other off. I said "sure" and before you know it we were stoking each other's cocks and enjoying every minute of it. About 5 minutes into us stroking each other his girlfriend asked if she could stroke us at the same time! Jackpot! Apparently they were High School sweethearts and my cock was the only other one she had ever touched. She was intrigued by it being "cut" and was really looking hard at it as she stroked real slow up and down. She even started asking me questions about how it feels and how she should do it to make it feel better. I was in heaven and I could see her boyfriend was too. After she edged us for another 15 or so minutes they both started talking about fucking and asked me if I minded them fucking in front of me because they were so turned on. "Fuck yeah! Go for it!" was my response. They fucked missionary for what seemed like another 10 minutes, her eyes never leaving my cock as I watched and stroked to them. At one point they had to stop because he had to take a leak...I guess he was buzzed when I got there. I can say I've never stopped in the middle of sex to take a leak, but good on him. While he was gone she just sat there breathing hard and rubbing herself while watching me stroke to her. When he got back she whispered something in his ear and they started fucking again. What happened next was the thing that horny dreams are made of. As he's pumping away he starts telling me how he has a hard time cumming while fucking her and loves her to blow him to finish. He then asked me if I'd like her to ride me while she blows him and we can all try to cum together. All i could think of was that this doesn't really happen does it? Are they for real...and fuck yes please ride me! I tell them that I'm so fucking revved up that it won't take long for me to squirt so don't be too disappointed..they reply was "perfect". So I lay on the couch, put a condom on that they provided (great hosts eh), and watched as she start to straddle me and begin to guide me cock towards that lovely pussy(forgot to mention that she didn't shave her pussy and in this case it was a-ok with me). The feeling as I slid in her was AMAZING. After edging myself, having her boyfriend edge me and then her edge us...THEN watching them fuck like rabbits for 20 or so minutes I was extremely turned on and rock hard. She made a little squeal as I went balls deep in her, she said that the way my cock curved really hit a sensitive spot that a cock had never really hit that way before and it was amazing. She rode me that way for a couple of minutes. Nice and slow, exploring how the curve of my cock reached different areas inside her and the different sensations she was feeling. All the while her boyfriend was watching and smiling, stroking his cock like a maniac. Not too long into it she started to roll her eyes in pleasure and said "NOW" to him. He stood next to the couch and started sucking on his cock like it was her last meal...lightly moaning with each hip thrust he made. Watching this and hearing her moaning get more and more intense was too much for me. I grabbed a tit with one hand, her ass with the other hand and gently held her up from coming down another thrust. It was my turn now! I started pumping her while rotating my hips. This instantly turned her moaning into yelps, and those yelps turned her boyfriend hmms into groans. Before I knew it he came in her mouth with one last grunt, she was saying "oh my fucking god" and I was cumming as hard as I think I ever had. It had happened about as close to perfectly as possible for 3 strangers fooling around for the first time (well two vs one anyway). She got off of me and collapsed onto the couch, he sat on the floor with a big 'ol grin, and I sat there still in disbelief that I had just fucked this dude's girlfriend while she blew him and that wasn't even close to what the original plan was. We each went to the restroom and cleaned up. After sitting around and chatting for a little while I left with the mutual agreement that we would try it again sometime now that we all figured out how great of a trio we are. I drove home still in disbelief that I had just had my first MFM threesum. Holy shit had I hit the lottery without even buying a ticket. We met one more time before they moved to the other side of the country for work...
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